The Night Juliet Killed Romeo
by Skyhiatrist
Summary: An Essay on Love By A Lover, by Helga G. Pataki. Grown ups only please, there be swearing in these waters.


**A/N: It's about time I submitted something to the Hey Arnold realm, though this is utterly mental. And STRICTLY for grown ups, due to swearing, a slightly, (but not very), adult scene, and general weirdness. -Sky.**

**The Night Juliet Killed Romeo**

It's desperate, and it's dark, but it's got to be done. I simply cannot go on like this, arm in arm with my own heart in a daily waltz that shatters my ankles and breaks my back. I cannot play the second fiddle to my own damn emotions, living as merely a vessel for them as opposed to them breathing solely within me. My love is what I am these days, and I am naught but it's little bitch, caught between my desire for it to leave and the fact that I am addicted to it. What to do, what to say, how to cut it away. What a mantra, what a life! Oh Arnold, how I love you.

A knife to the wrist is romantic, but no. I am not there yet. I am not willing to take that plunge nor that final breath, departing only to exist in the poems that I shall leave behind. I am not willing to strike myself from this plane, to take the name of Helga Pataki and scatter it amongst the forgotten stars. I am only ready now to let go, and see where the wind will take me. That is, of course, if it catches me at all.

But to let go of this love I have for him? Can I do that? Of course I can't, and it was foolish of you to think that I could. Love is not a liquid, you cannot switch it off merely by turning a tap. All you can do is take away that which I love, but even then I would still be deeply devoted to that which I used to know. So letting go of the love is not an option, not something I am capable of doing. I merely wish to let go of myself, and allow the insanity which is this true love to wash over me. Oh, what bliss it shall be to sink beneath it's depths, and like so many victims I shall drown in it, happy and calm and oh so unaware. I am unsavalageable. Let me go.

Reading back, I fear I am all but too dramatic. I fear I have begun to hold this lament I feel for the love, and yet not the love itself, in too high a regard, and now the purity of what I feel is forgotten beneath the weight of who it causes me to be. Has it shaped me so dramatically? Has it twisted this skinny, pale, (unlovable?) body of mine into something so unrecognisable as to be truly damned? Am I cursed, in fact, to walk this world alone forever, lost behind the shadow that encompasses me so? If this is the case, I shall take it. I would rather be anonymous than pathetic any day.

For him to take my hand in his own would be heaven, but where would I be then? I would lose this passion of mine, and this identity as unrequited tragedy, and I would be left, without inspiration or hope. They say, _they say_, that he should be my inspiration, and oh, he is! Believe me, many a word written on these pages exists purely because he continues to torment me so. There is a certain amount of beauty to be drawn from one's own depression, I mean, honestly, look at me go, and yet sometimes I find myself wondering. Would I trade it all in for him? Would I give it all up to be an ineloquent nobody, swathed in the perfumed pinkness of love but abandoned by the tragic beauty of the written word?

Of course I fucking would. I am but human, after all.

And yes, that I would give my all to have him here, lying and naked beside me, telling me that he wants me, needs me, as I have so long yearned for him. The sensations that await me on the tip of my imagination, (and those which vulgarly lay rampant at the tip of his tongue), how I crave their sweet release! How I desire to be lost in those few moments where all my body knows is pleasure, and all he knows is that he is the one giving it to me. How I want to be his maiden, his woman, and, dare I say it, his first! How I want to be his lover, and how I want to be his loved.

And afterwards we would lie, tangled in each other's arms and wasted passions, too exhausted to talk or to stay awake and so happy because of it. We would melt into each other, becoming but one in our union and we would be blessed because so few of us actually know what it is to love someone so completely. For Arnold would love me, with the entirety of his heart and soul, if only he knew. If only I could find within me the courage to tell him that were the world to fall away tomorrow, I would be fine, as long as I had him to hold on to. That without him the sun would fade a little, the sky would not be as vibrant, and I would be nowhere near the person I am today. That without him, I am nothing, and that this does not shame me at all.

And so we come full circle, to the point of no return. It's dark, and it's desperate, but it's got to be done. So after I have had the guts to hand this in, I will find inside myself some more courage, which I shall carry to Arnold like a prize. And, holding this golden spark in front of me like a protective shield, I shall fix his beautiful green eyes with my blue, and I shall say to him, quite simply;

"Arnold, I love you. Now do with that what you will."

I realise that this is all nothing but words until the deed is done, but I have seen a light, had an epiphany, found a way. It's bright! It's divine! And I think it goes right, but I do not mind so much, as long as there is nothing _left_.

And so I bid you adieu, or goodbye, or so long, and pray that in return you wish me only good luck. I shall be made or broken today, and I daresay you will be able to tell which has befallen me tomorrow morning. If I look sad, please smile oh teacher. I may need to be reminded that there is still beauty in this world.


End file.
